Chapter Nine
At first, Maggie thought she was dreaming—or possibly dead—because she couldn’t believe she was in England. With Ethan Wyatt.
Standing in front of a mansion. That belonged to—
There was a gentle push at her back and suddenly Maggie was stumbling away from the car and closer to the woman with white
hair and sharp blue eyes. Eleanor’s left hand rested on her hip and her right sat atop the silver handle of a cane. She looked
like a painting come to life, the story of an avenging angel who fell to Earth a thousand years ago, then decided to stick
around.
Maggie had read every book—every article—every word ever written by (or about) Eleanor Ashley, but all she could think as
she stood there was No wonder they call her the Duchess of Death .
“So happy you could make it. I would have given you more notice, but, well... I like a twist.” Eleanor’s smile was quick
and sharp and teasing. A little self-deprecating, too, because when you’ve sold more books than the Bible you can afford to
be the butt of your own jokes.
Maggie knew Eleanor was in her early eighties, but the woman before them seemed timeless in a black sweaterdress that was
probably decades old but had never gone out of style, kind of like the woman who wore it. Her only item of jewelry was a pearl
and silver brooch in the shape of a magnifying glass. It felt whimsical and out of place but also extremely, exactly perfect.
“You’re...” Maggie barely recognized her own voice. She thought she might pass out. And maybe she would have if she hadn’t
felt a pressure around her waist—a strong arm pulling her tight against far too many muscles.
“How was your flight?” Eleanor asked.
The pressure on Maggie’s waist tightened, like Ethan was trying to squeeze a reply out of her. “Uh...”
“It was great!” Ethan beamed. “Thank you so much for having us. We’re honored to be here.”
He squeezed again. Ouch. “Hi. Hello. Hi.”
“We’re big fans.” It was a lie, of course, but Maggie was probably fan enough for both of them and Ethan was practically carrying her toward the door—like they were contestants in a three-legged race but only two of their legs were
working properly and they both belonged to him.
“You’re...” Eleanor Ashley. My favorite author. The reason I do what I do. My idol. My favorite. My oldest friend even though we’ve never
met. “You’re... You’re...”
“—home is lovely,” Ethan filled in, giving Maggie a look that said get it together , so she did the only thing she could think to do in front of the Duchess of Death: she dipped slowly and—
“Did you just curtsy?” Ethan whispered.
“I...”
“We’re both just thrilled to be here. Right, Maggie?” He glanced down at her. “Maybe a little tired, though? Didn’t you say
you were tired?” he prompted, then gave a low, soft laugh. “It was a long flight.”
Maggie felt the weight of Eleanor’s gaze then. Appraising. Calculating. Like at any moment she was going to order Maggie back
into the Rolls, the airplane. The sea. Like Maggie was going to get sent away before she’d even stepped inside. But that would
have been okay, Maggie told herself. The last two minutes were already the best Christmas of her life.
But Eleanor simply turned to lead them inside, and Maggie couldn’t keep from staring at the way she leaned heavily on the
cane, not quite limping, but moving slowly. Carefully. For the first time, she seemed frail. And she must have read Maggie’s
mind because she gestured to the cane with her free hand.
“Don’t mind this. I just carry it to keep the boys away.” Eleanor gave a weak chuckle, then admitted, “And I slipped on the
stairs a few weeks ago. Thought I might as well use the damn thing. I’ve had it forever. There’s a dagger inside. See?”
She picked up the cane and twisted and then, click , out popped a dagger. Even on the overcast day it glistened in the sun. “I have another one that will shoot a tranquilizer
dart twenty feet if you press the rose on the handle.”
There was pure mischief in the older woman’s eyes. And sheer adoration in Ethan’s.
“I love you,” he said. “Will you marry me? Or adopt me? I’m happy either way. Totally your call.”
“I like you.” Eleanor smiled like a woman who had heard far worse offers, and then she cocked her head and said, “We’ll see.”